Leave Not A Trace
by Albino Magpie
Summary: It's a part of them. Hating each other, destroying each other is what they do. But some ways to destroy are sweeter than others. America/Russia


**A/N: **Firstly: If you are offended by personified countries. guy-on-guy situations or somewhat violent sex, I suggest you leave now. Secondly, this is set in the Cold War. That means I'm in no way, shape or form trying to portray _modern-day_ American-Russian military or political relationships. Thirdly, and most importantly, have as much fun reading this as I had writing it!

As much as the strain, the fear, the outright _loathing_ made his stomach clench, America had to be grudgingly impressed with the other. Russia's hand hadn't wavered once during their deadly, burning-but-frozen dance. He still held the gun's barrel perfectly aligned with the younger nation's sternum, white fingers turned whiter by clutching at the weapon like it was his last lifeline. But there were fine tremors running down his arm, muscles quivering from the strain. His lips were drawn tight, his forehead damp with sweat, but his eyes still shone with that violet fire.

The flames in hell were this shade, America was sure. This color he couldn't grasp, could barely define, somewhere between purple and blue, like Russia himself, alternating between fire and ice. Between bitterness and sweetness.

Right now, salt and iron were all he could taste on the other's skin. He dragged his free left hand up a pale, sweat-beaded shoulder, tracing the by now familiar outline of a twisted, knotted scar. His fingers slid up further, until they tangled in a mess of ash-blond hair, and he pulled, hard enough for Russia's right hand to twitch. A rush of adrenaline shot through him as he felt the steel press into his chest, blood like water up the river that was his jugular vein, water that was rushing in the steady, rapid beat of his pulse.

His own right hand tightened on his own gun, and his left slid down, down, down to scratch skin, to bruise, to clasp and stroke and finally to demand entrance and gain it. His wrist was caught between Russia's broad thighs as he leaned down for a deep, slick kiss, but then the other's legs parted.

Not a plea, not an offer, nor a surrender. An order.

America wasn't one to be ordered around, especially not by Russia, not even when he wasn't in his right mind. But at this moment, he was more than ready to give his all, to take everything he could from Russia. To mix their bodies and their sweat and their spit in a deadly alchemy.

The gun was the only thing he could hold on to as he aligned himself between Russia's legs and began to push forward, without care for the other's comfort or discomfort, only caring for his own desire, his own need.

He almost lost control when he felt the heat and the tightness, almost lost control of his hand and almost put a bullet through the chest that was heaving beneath him. Russia seemed quite breathless with the attention, a lopsided almost-smile on his lips, the bottom one torn open. He'd bitten down on it in an effort not to scream or laugh or curse. Blood ran down his chin freely, and America lapped it up, the copper penny taste filling his mouth and all of his senses. He willed himself to follow some kind of rhythm, slamming their bodies together at a pace that made them both gasp. The pulse like thunder in their ears, the fireworks inside their heads, the rush of pleasure and fear led them as they dealt out rough, clumsy left-handed caresses. The twin barrels of the guns pressed into their skin harder and harder every time they collided.

Their mouths met in another kiss, the hardest and sloppiest one yet, a kiss that was driven by only one thing – hunger.

The hunger to consume the other, to absorb and destroy him, his lands, his ideology. To leave not a trace of him in the books, on the maps, on the face of the earth.

Head spinning, America pulled away from the kiss. As their eyes met and locked, they almost laughed, or fainted or perhaps died in shame. For a second, their muddled heads cleared, and they saw where they were. Joint together, deep and heated and slick, each pressing a gun to the other's chest in an unsteady, sweat-damp hand. It was almost ridiculous.

Everything seemed to be on standstill, America felt that he was on the edge and just about to fall. He bent his head, only a little, and started running his tongue over the gash in Russia's lip, again and again, sucking and probing for more.

It was the taste of blood in his mouth that did him in, the smell of sex in the air. It was the other's barely suppressed whimpers, the way his free hand fisted the sheets and his wide-open violet eyes slid shut.

America's own eyes snapped open as the climax hit him, tongues of fire licking up his spine, setting every nerve aflame. His finger almost, _almost _tightened on the trigger, and his hand cramped when he kept himself from shooting, willingly or unwillingly, by the thinnest of threads and the utmost of effort.

In the split-second he was nearly blinded by sensation, he saw Russia's finger twitch as his own body shook, just a little bit too far.

_click _

The sound was unnaturally loud over their gasps. America felt like the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. He disentangled himself from Russia, head still spinning, the movement drawing another sound from the other's lips, something between a moan and a sigh.

America dropped next to him on the bed, his breath coming in hard, fast gasps. Finally he had gained enough air to speak.

„You left the _safety _on?" He asked, uncaring in his disbelief that he was stating the entirely _obvious_. Russia laughed, a feeling somewhere between happiness and disgust blossoming in America's chest as he realized it had been _him _to make the older nation sound this breathless.

„It seems so." he said, voice soft and sweet and lilting in order to deceive, an act that didn't fool America in the slightest.

The latter raised his right arm and fired a single bullet into the cracked ceiling.

„I didn't." he said.


End file.
